Where the Hell Was I?http://www.wherethehellwasi.com/
enCopyright 2015Sat, 28 Feb 2015 14:35:46 -0500http://www.sixapart.com/movabletype/?v=1.0.1http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rssSoon, I'll Say the Darnedest Things(Hope over to Secondhand SCIENCE for this week's nonsense, and learn about the zinc finger. I promise it's the least frightening finger I'll ever describe to you.

Unless you have a phobia about metal-binding proteins. Or frogs. Or formalwear made from garbage. Then you're on your own.)

I can be socially awkward. This should come as no surprise to anyone who's ever been within thirty-five feet of me in public. It can be a burden, and embarrassing -- but I've finally figured out my problem. And better, how to solve it.

You see, I've discovered my particular brand of awkwardness doesn't stem from having nothing to say. Some people have that; a loss for words -- blanking out in conversation, or shying away entirely -- but that's not exactly my pathology.

Because I have things to say. Oh, I've got plenty of things to say.

They're just not socially appropriate things to say.

And that's the crux of it. I'm a smartass, I don't like small talk and I take most things people say at face value. And the problem with that -- insofar as there's a "problem" with being totally efficient and awesome in conversation -- is that nobody wants to hear the reactions that come most naturally to me.

Okay, I suppose that is a "problem". Assuming I ever want to interview for a job or meet new friends or order a cone at the local ice cream shop. Which I do.

(Wellll. Two out of three. In the summer. At best.)

"Statements like these are the conversational equivalent of rice cakes."

Anyway, where I falter is when some friendly socially-forward goober wanders over for a conversation and says something like:

"Sure is cold today."

Or:

"Thank god it's Friday, amirite?"

Or my favorite:

"You got a haircut."

I have responses for all of these statements. Not that they require responses, semantically, because two of them aren't questions and the middle one is really rhetorical, but I've tried not responding to these sorts of things, and the speakers tend to look at me expectantly, with raised brows and drooly chins, until one of us breaks the impasse and walks away.

(It's always me. They never walk away. Why do they never walk away?)

(Don't answer that; it's rhetorical. Which I'll tell you up front, because that's what people ought to do; what the hell is wrong with society?)

Ahem. Sorry. I got a little caught up in my pathology. Please forgive.

The point is this: Statements like these are the conversational equivalent of rice cakes. If you want to have them in private, that's your self-hating prerogative -- but don't drag other people into your nightmare. Munch your semantically null sentiments off in a corner somewhere, and come back when there's something substantial to say.

That's the dream. It's never going to happen. And I'm the dick for dreaming it. Fine.

It turns out, I'm also the dick for responding in the way that comes naturally. Like to the "cold today" quip, what I'd like to reply is:

"Actually, it's much colder on the surface of Neptune, where your flapping lips would freeze together and shatter and we wouldn't have to have this inane conversation. So no. It's actually not quite cold enough."

Or to "TGIF":

"According to most religious texts, the various gods seem to favor either Saturday or Sunday as holy days, so you'd get the most out of thanking your deity of choice for one of those. Also, since Friday is not the weekend, I'm stuck here at work listening to you regurgitate slogans you read off a coffee mug, so whatever deity you worship, I hope he, she, it or they cast you into the abyss, snake pit or lake of fire that's used by your magic sky person, animal totem or transcendent pot-bellied vagrant to eternally torment the souls of unbelievers, heretics, baby slappers and people who turn left from an optional turn lane without using their signals."

Those sorts of responses, I've come to learn, are "not appropriate".

I disagree, of course. The responses are completely appropriate to the statements; they're just not conducive to remaining an employed, married, non-incarcerated, (marginally) respected member of society. Which is also kind of important.

So I can't say the things I want to say, a lot of the time. I also can't say the things that I'm supposed to say -- "it's dang chilly, brutha!" or "all them hairs got cut!" or "only thing better'n Friday is Huuuuuump Day, baby!" -- because I just can't.

For one thing, it kills me a little bit on the inside. And also the outside, where I'm sure my look of abject horror shines through like an endoscopy scope peeking up out the throat of Edvard Munch's Scream.

But mostly, replying in the usual way never seems to end the conversation. It just encourages more of the same -- "was it hot enough fer ya yesterday?" -- and nobody wants that, particularly if there are any sharp pointy objects in the vicinity.

Hence my awkwardness for four-plus decades. My instincts are wrong. Social convention is way wrong. So I've always been stuck.

Until now.

Now I've figured it out. I don't have to be a jerk (other peoples' label; not mine), nor do I have to be a soulless slave to societal convention lacking creative gumption enough to try to share genuine personal thoughts and feelings (okay, that label's mine). I can choose a third way:

Word of the day.

That's my new plan. Every day, I'll pick a word. A fun word. Nothing mean or meaningful or relevant; just something fun to say. Like "persimmon". Or "Sasquatch". Or "mumbletypeg". And when I'm in one of those stuck moments, caught between expectation and excoriation, I'll say the word.

Nothing else. Just "peccadilloes". Or "alabaster". Or "lollygag".

And then I'll nod, as though I've said something perfectly reasonable, and see what happens next. Probably a "what?" Or a frown. Or more small talk, since that seems to be the "go-to" for a lot of people. And that's okay. Any of those will simply get a smile and a repeat of the day's word. Whether it's "applejack". Or "dirigible". Or "onomatopoeia".

Employed, I'm not so sure about. Maybe it's best I don't unveil my new plan on a Friday. Because TGIF, baby. T. G. I. F. Apparently.

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http://www.wherethehellwasi.com/categories/awkward-conversations/soon_ill_say_the_darnedest_things.htmlAwkward ConversationsSat, 28 Feb 2015 14:35:46 -0500Oh, the Wearing Outside is Frightful(This week in Secondhand SCIENCE silliness: ionizing radiation. It's the most fun you can have without an electron.*

* Don't go having fun without an electron, kids. What would your grandmother think? Lord.)

With a winter like ours in New England -- relentless blizzards, subzero wind chills, snowdrifts the size of albino brontosauruses -- you eventually start asking yourself some important questions. Questions like:

Will the yard ever thaw again, or should I start charging neighborhood kids two bucks a pop to ice skate on it?

Can I claim snow blindness on workers' comp, to get out of trudging through waist-high Siberian slop to the office every day?

If I trip face-first into a snowbank and play it off as though I'm making a snow angel, will anyone actually believe me? And will the bus I'm waiting for leave without me in disgust?

Important questions, all. But the most pressing one I've found is not one I expected. It's more of a wardrobe query, and it's this:

When does a thing stop being "clean", exactly?

Let me preface my thoughts on this by saying it's not a question that usually comes up. A worn garment is a dirty garment -- a filthy, unclean, shameful lump of cloth to be hidden away from polite society until such time as it's been laundered, fluffed and, depending on your fabric softener brand, made to smell like a thousand old ladies buried in a rose garden.

"The rule is clear. I might bend it occasionally, when push comes to salsa stain, but I've never questioned the rule."

In other words, worn equals dirty -- with a few exceptions. Weekend sweatpants, for instance. A hoodie slipped on just to make a beer run. Gently lived-in jeans on a desperate Friday morning, when the only clean options are tuxedo pants and a neon pair of Speedos.

The rule is clear. I might bend it occasionally, when push comes to salsa stain, but I've never questioned the rule. It's the rule.

That was before the four snowmen of the Blizzapocalypse blew through, shitting sleet on our heads like New England had collectively signed up for some sort of climatological ice bucket challenge. Now the rule isn't so clear. For instance:

All week, I wore four shirts. The average forecast was fourteen degrees below absolute zero, or something equally ridiculous, with a seventy percent chance of slipping on icy sidewalks and falling ass-backwards into a snow bank. So I layered. I started with a T-shirt, then a long-sleeved T, then a heavier long-sleever and then a sweatshirt or rugby or whatever I thought I could get away with wearing to the office that wasn't lined with fur or the cozy warming blubber of baby seals.

These shirts were all different, every day. But by mid-week, I started asking: are some of these things still "clean", by some reasonable definition?

Like, clearly, not the T-shirt. That thing is rubbing up against pits and hair and tucked into pants and became dirty -- really, truly dirty -- roughly three seconds after I put it on. The T is not clean. Nobody's saying that.

Ditto the outer shirt. While its experience is perhaps less... suffocated, it's out there in the elements, sleeves flapping, touching people and walls and probably rogue globs of salsa, so it's definitely not clean, either. It's seen things, man. And it's probably filthy.

But what about the shirt under that? Existentially speaking, is it clean? It's not exposed to the world. It's not touching me. It's got a two-shirt buffer from me, to soak up any scents or liquids or anything else a disgusting human might ooze throughout the day. So, what's its status? Clean? Dirty? Can I wear it again without washing it? If I do, can I tell anyone? Is this even a sane question? And if it is, should I write about it in a public place, exposing my madness to the world at large?

Clearly, the answer to at least one of those questions is "yes". Sadly for us all. But that doesn't answer my original question, which is whether some of those "sandwich" shirts in the in-between layers are clean. Or "clean", which would be close enough, because I lived in a dorm room for four years and heaven knows we didn't come anywhere close to "clean" -- or even ""clean"" -- the entire time.

It's not just the shirts, though. Oh, no. We're not in "layer your torso and be done with it" territory here. This is time to gird all the body parts, which means extra insulation all over -- which means further conundrums vis a vis personal hygiene and doing fourteen loads of laundry every week.

Seriously. Sandwich shirts are easy, by the time you start asking yourself whether you can recycle the middle pair of three socks into your wardrobe. Or whether any of four pairs of boxers were safe enough from your junk to make it back into rotation.

So yeah, this winter is tough. The shoveling we can handle, and the driving and the freezing and the roofs collapsing under two tons of white stuff. But the wardrobe planning?

Also cannibals, chipmunk nuts and some chick in a bologna suit. As all good science should. Check it out.)

I was never all that good at math. I mean, I can add, and multiply smallish numbers together and convert inches to millimeters, if you give me a few minutes. And a quiet room to think about it. Also, a calculator.

Basically, I'm cool with any sort of math you might need to do to calculate baseball statistics -- because honestly, what other point is there of learning math at all? Sure, astronauts should know a little trig, and math teachers should maybe watch Good Will Hunting at some point, but otherwise it's just piling on. The final college math exam should just be figuring out the batting averages and ERAs for every schmo on the Minnesota Twins, and congratulations, you're ready for an office job.

(This has the added benefit of getting someone, anyone, to pay attention to the Twins for a couple of hours. Those guys are like the Cleveland Indians, without the Major League love.)

I say all of this to admit that I'm no Benoit Mandelbrot when it comes to mathematicals, but I've recently learned that I'm also not the worst when it comes to numbers, either. Because that trophy belongs to home appliance installers.

"We scoped out brands and features and which in-door ice makers would make cubes in naughty shapes for parties."

My wife and I recently bought a new refrigerator. We scoped out brands and features and which in-door ice makers would make cubes in naughty shapes for parties.

Once we had our favorite models in mind, we moved on to the very most important spec of all: width. Because you can pick out the most spectacular refrigerator of all -- it can deep-freeze your Ben and Jerry's, email when you're low on milk and squeeze boob cubes into your Tom Collinses all day. But if it won't fit in the kitchen, you're shit outta luck. And also outta milk, and that appears to be Cherry Garcia dripping all over your linoleum. Aw.

We didn't make that mistake. There are a couple of ways into our kitchen -- the condo layout is sort of a Mobius strip -- but the biggest available doorway is thirty inches wide. That's thirty. Three. Oh.

Like I said, I'm not much with the maths. But I got out an abacus and a few sheets of paper, and I figured out that to get through a thirty-inch doorway, we'd need to buy a fridge that had a maximum width of less than thirty inches.

(I know, I know -- nobody came here expecting word problems. This isn't the SAT. But bear with me. There's only one more bit of math. Promise.)

So we did just that. We picked out a model that claimed to be, minus the removable door and brackets, less than thirty inches wide. Not by a lot. Let's face it -- a six-inch wide fridge isn't helping much of anyone. You could store uncooked spaghetti in there -- standing up, not longways, obviously -- and that's about it. Maybe pencils. Or a single row of hot dogs.

Clearly, we wanted something wider. So the fridge we selected was on the higher end of what's feasible: twenty-nine and one-half inches. A tight fit, to be sure. But physically possible. Shoved through on a dolly, there'd be a whole gaping quarter-inch chasm on each side as buffer. Easy. Like tossing those hot dogs down a hallway. Or something.

So we ordered the refrigerator, set up a delivery and on the date a couple of guys came and wheeled it into our living room, next to that thirty-inch doorway. They removed the door and some other fiddly equipment, dollied it over and said...

"Uh oh."

Turns out, there are flanges -- or flangey-type metalish things; my applied engineering is about as good as my math -- sticking out of the fridge cavity, by about an inch. Which, added to the twenty-nine and one-half inches advertised in width, is apparently too big to fit through the door. Or so the guys told me. And then showed me on a calculator. And Texas Instruments don't lie.

We then dipped into a fascinating discussion on semantics, and whether the "bracketless" designation in the spec sheet also implied "flangeless" -- or "flangey-type metalish thingless". Also, we debated the nature of the phrase "less than thirty inches", and found our philosophies on the matter to be, shall we say, less than compatible.

Which is odd, because that's pretty basic math. I know it's math, because there are numbers involved. And I'm sure it's basic, because it's something I've actually learned. If it were rocket science, it would involve Greek letters and derivatives of things, and I'd get a headache thinking about it. But I don't. Until I talked to the installers.

So. Now we have a second appointment with the home appliance people, who maybe this time will send a mathematician on the crew. Or at least, someone armed with a goddamned flange remover. In the meantime, we have a perfectly lovely, full-featured, doorless and flange-protruding refrigerator disassembled next to our living room couch. It's not keeping our Chunky Monkey frozen, and my hot dogs and spaghetti are scandalously room temperature.

All I know is, when this thing gets in there, it had better make the naughtiest ice cubes the world has ever seen. Somebody owes me.

There's a trick to spending the winter in Boston. It's the same trick I imagine would be needed to spend a winter in Minneapolis, or Vancouver, or, say, the ice planet Hoth:

Park your car in a garage.

It took me several winters in Boston to learn this lesson, because I'm not all that bright. Also, I was busy shoveling snow during most of those winters, so I didn't have a lot of free time for reflection. But eventually, slowly, I learned.

That's half the battle.

The rest of the battle, presumably, is actually owning or renting a garage spot in which to park, and I haven't exactly figured that part out yet.

(I suppose the other alternative would be to ditch the car. But that's not exactly practical for people in my situation.

Like, honestly, what if you had to bring groceries home from the store on Hoth without a car? It's not like they make hatchback tuantuans.)

That puts me in a bit of a pickle, automotively. I do have a parking spot -- but it's not in a garage; it's in the great outdoors. By which I mean, it's at the end of an overcrowded behind-a-brownstone parking lot accessed via a narrow snaking eighty-foot driveway across the street.

"I just want to park, and to not wind up like Jack Nicholson at the end of the Shining when I need to drive somewhere."

So not "great outdoors" in the "Grand Canyon" or "Swiss Alps" sort of way. But it sure as hell ain't a garage.

In the best of conditions, it's not even much of a parking lot, what with all the vehicles crammed in together and the angled-parking angles jutting all willy nilly. What it is, after a blizzard, is a fantastic snow receptacle. You can store tons of the stuff in there. On top of cars. Between cars. All down the driveway. It's fantastic, if you're in the snow hoarding business.

And best of all, even if someone comes in to rob you, they can't get any of that snow out without an industrial bulldozer. You could be the Scrooge McDuck of snow.

That's not really my thing. I just want to park, and to not wind up like Jack Nicholson at the end of the Shining when I need to drive somewhere. Like South America. Where it's warm.

This year, I've finally made progress. That parking spot of mine has had two feet of snow dumped on it in the last two weeks -- and another foot coming this weekend, it's rumored -- but there's one key difference between this season and the winters of back-breaking shoveling past: my car's not in it.

You see, I've failed in fifteen Boston years to find a garage spot near where I live. But I have managed to weasel into a job that gives me a parking spot beneath a shopping mall three blocks from where I work.

I'm not saying that's ideal, either. This is the life I'm working with, is all.

So whenever a new storm's on the way -- like yesterday -- I leave my car at work, in the mall garage. Sometimes I walk three miles home, for the privilege. Sometimes, it's a white-knuckle cab ride through the hordes of people desperately stocking up on bread and milk and non-edible sidewalk salt. But the best way through this Arcticifaction of New England -- perhaps the only way, judging by the thousands of street-parked cars that haven't been dug out in three weeks -- is this remote-parking, garage-borrowing nonsense I've adopted.

Now. If I can just swap my sidewalk for some nice clean warehouse hallway. That would be sweet.

This time, we're talking tumor suppressors -- the genes that do important and necessary things, but are only really appreciated after they're gone. Like Vincent Van Gogh, or orthodontic braces. Or a veggie burrito. You get the idea.)

I'm thinking about looking into home automation, or the "internet of things" or "casa Futurama" or whatever the hell people are calling it these days. I haven't taken a serious look yet. I just know that it sounds terribly cool, and that if you don't have the gross national product of a small second-world nation to throw at it, it's going to be disappointing.

Still. It does sound cool.

Take "smart appliances", for instance. We were in the market for a new refrigerator recently, and one of the models that caught my eye was a "smart" model from Samsung.

(Which begged the obvious question: are all of their other models somehow "stupid"? Calling only one "smart" out of a product line of six or whatever doesn't speak very highly of those other fridges. Do they get distracted and unplug themselves when nobody's supervising? Will they boil the gallon of milk I put inside? If none of them can spell "freon", how can I expect them to use it properly?)

(Maybe that's just me. I've always argued that when companies put out a product that's "new and improved", they should have to relabel the remaining stock of original product "old-ass and craptastic".

It's possible I'm a little over-sensitive to modern marketing strategies.)

Anyway, the idea of a smart refrigerator sounded amazing. And I've read in tech articles before where the technology is heading. Barcode readers installed on the doors. Automated sensors to tell you when your milk is expired, or you're nearly out of Cheetos.

(For the record, I don't routinely store my Cheetos in the refrigerator.

But if I had a smart fridge that would sound an alert when I'm almost out, then maybe I would. I'm just saying.)

"This is not the glimpse into the "home of tomorrow" I was hoping for."

Now, I haven't shopped for a refrigerator in several years. So I was eager to see what fantastic time- and effort-saving features had made it to the marketplace. And I went over that Samsung fridge's specs, top to bottom. Here's what I found:

1. It works like all of their other refrigerators, which is to say like pretty much every refrigerator made in the last five years.

2. In the front, instead of a little screen to show temperature or which kind of cube will come out the ice maker, there's a slightly bigger screen about the size of a cheap tablet. A cheap Samsung tablet.

3. The screen is basically a cheap Samsung tablet glued to the door, with several crucial differences. First, the only apps appear to be Pandora, a recipe viewer and a picture display. Second, you can't install any more apps on it. And third, when you compare features with the "stupid" fridges, the cheap tablet glued to the fridge door costs about three times as much as one that isn't glued to the door of a refrigerator.

(Presumably, Samsung sells a whole tier of these Frankenstein beasts, with the price escalating if the tablet is glued to, say, a toaster. Or a French coffee press.)

This is not the glimpse into the "home of tomorrow" I was hoping for. The "home of that day I taped my recipes to the fridge and bought a shitty Bluetooth speaker for the kitchen", maybe. But not "tomorrow", by a long shot.

I'm starting to get the feeling all these other home automation gizmos are in basically the same boat. They're not really "smart"; in fact, they're barely "savant" . Sure, I could get a front door lock that would open when my keychain comes within ten feet of it. But would it stay locked if it was a Sasquatch carrying my keys, and trying to get in to raid my delicious, possibly-past-the-date and maybe-refrigerator-boiled milk?

I don't think so.

Or how about lights that turn on when I enter the bedroom -- unless I'm sneaking in at three in the morning, and trying not to wake the missus? Also, some of those lights can change color. Will they turn green to remind me to take out the recycling? Or red, when I'm getting chewed out for waking up my wife at three in the morning? Or most important, orange when there's a sudden emergency because we're almost out of Cheetos?

Again, it's doubtful.

So I'll keep looking into this "smart-if-you-say-so" technology, but I'm not getting my hopes up. If all the rest of it is only as "smart" as the fridge, it's going to be a long, long time before my kitchen knows more about my kitchen than I do.

Partly because they're a little too common. I tend to stay away from the conventions that everyone follows, because how interesting are those? To paraphrase a popular saying about opinions:

New Years' resolutions are like assholes: everyone's got one, and nobody wants their face rubbed in someone else's.

Wait. Maybe that was birthdays. Anyway, you get the point.

Also, I don't like New Years' resolutions because the tradition is completely arbitrary. A large fraction of the eastern hemisphere doesn't even recognize January first as the start of the new year. A few hundred years ago, various Europeans celebrated in spring, or September or December 25th. And between all the adjustments and gaps and tinkering with the Gregorian and Julian and other calendars over the centuries, who knows whether modern "January 1" is still the same "January 1" people were talking about through history, anyway?

What I'm saying is, if you simply must make an annual resolution, pick whatever day you like. It's fairly likely it was "New Years' Day" to someone, sometime, somewhere in history.

Mostly, of course, I'm just lazy. So I don't make New Years' resolutions. But this year, I am making a "Second-to-Last Week of January resolution".

(A recap of the situation, for those of you -- okay, all of you, who can't be bothered to link through and catch up:

ZuG.com was a Boston-based humor site for around 15 years, featuring pranks, articles, message boards and some of the least uncomfortable talk about "pee tubes" you can imagine.

Also, some of the most uncomfortable talk about pretty much everything else. And yes, it was glorious.

I wrote two series of around fifty articles each there -- one involving Facebook post pranks on companies, and the other silly Amazon reviews. When ZuG closed up shop on April Fools Day 2013, I was able to grab the materials [and permission] to repost those articles here.

I got the Facebook posts cleaned up and reposted by April 2014. The Amazon articles, not so much. Like I said, I'm lazy.)

So, I'm making a late-January resolution to get these silly things live by April 1st, the second anniversary of ZuG riding the old flaming Viking funeral ship out to sea.

(Or choking on a cocktail wiener while sitting on the toilet. None of us has actually seen the medical examiner's report.)

To be honest, I'd nearly forgotten about those old Amazon reviews, but my memory was jogged when I found out two of them were hand-selected (by Amazon automated delivery drones, possibly) to appear in Did You Read That Review? It's a book chock full of odd and hilarious reviews of Amazon products, and I'm proud to be a part of it.

Also, now I want to get those articles up so I can read what the hell I was thinking when I wrote that nonsense.

So if you want a sneak peek of the Amazon-pranking goodness to come... again, by April... probably, unless it's really hard... then check out the book. Or just sit back and wait (like I've basically done for nearly two years), and perhaps the articles will magically reappear.

Either way, this is the best non-New Years' New Years' resolution I've ever heard of. Anybody can lose weight or quit smoking or get elected to Congress in the space of a year. But I'm taking laughs from the internet tomb in which they lie (and also, a book), and bringing them back to life -- the better to be ridiculed, mocked and vilified for creating them in the first place.

If that doesn't say "brave new year", I don't know what the hell else does.

This week, it's a look at DNA origami. Want to fold a pretty swan out of your genetic material? Well, that's kind of strange. But maybe you can. Have a look, weirdball.)

I'm not sure I'm on board with this whole "Boston hosting a Summer Olympics" thing.

Sure, it would be a fantastic cultural experience -- people from countries all over the world would mingle in the streets, sharing thoughts and cuisines and various exotic pathogens. It'd be like a United Nations meeting, with more javelins. Or Carnivale, without the boobs.

And maybe living here, I'd even be able to score tickets to a couple of the events. Nothing extravagant, of course. The popular sports would be way out of my price range. But maybe I could catch Cameroon and Laos in a cornhole semifinal, or whoever Russia hasn't re-absorbed in Eastern Europe playing a game of table soccer.

Are those exhibition sports? I don't really keep up.

Still, I can't see the advantages outweighing the significant and inevitable suckages. Logistics, for instance. Boston proper is approximately the size of a Denny's place mat, which means the venues for sports would either be outside the city and miles apart, or allcrammedupontopofeachother, which would lead to some terribly awkward moments around the Olympic village.

And then they'd run off to practice Greco-Roman wrestling in the dorms. Do you want that on your conscience?

"There's a reason people only bother going to Gillette Stadium for four games a year in December and January. I'm just saying."

Well, fine, maybe you do. Still, it seems kind of messy. And the point stands -- the plan as I've heard it is to use existing sporting venues all over the suburbs, which would mean an awful lot of zipping around on overtaxed roads and buses and subway cars to see them. There's a reason people only bother going to Gillette Stadium for four games a year in December and January. I'm just saying.

Speaking of which, that's another markdown for the Olympics: why would you host a sporting event that the local sports heroes wouldn't excel at?

That's just not the Boston way, frankly. When we've hosted the Stanley Cup in hockey, we made sure the Bruins got to play in it. Ditto the World Serieses at Fenway; the Red Sox were right in the middle of those. All the NBA playoffs in Boston have featured the Celtics, and the NFL post-season played here includes the Patriots, like clockwork. The local fans love those teams, and the players. But where in the world would any of them get into the Olympics?

Nowhere, is where. What's David Ortiz going to do, join a rowing team? They say Tom Brady and Rob Gronkowski have a great rapport on the field -- but can they synchronize swim? And who wants to see Zdeno Chara in competitive horse jumping? Not the horses. I'll guarantee you that.

Besides all of that, the last few Olympics have been enormous money sinks for their host cities, costing billions of dollars to plan for, put on and clean up after. Neither Boston nor Massachusetts has that kind of money lying around; it's already earmarked for Harvard fundraisers and MIT startups. Also, I think we're probably still paying for the Big Dig. Also, Ted Kennedy's bar tab. And the Tea Party.

(No, not the loonybag recent one. The other one, back in Redcoat times.)

So personally, I think I'd prefer if the Olympics pass Boston by -- with one exception. These are the 2024 Olympics, I think, and that's still a few years off. Maybe by then, we'll have this virtual reality thing finally figured out, and all the games will be digital, with the athletes competing via joysticks from the comfort of their Olympic Village sleep pods, and the rest of us jacked into the Matrix to watch. It might not matter at that point what city the Olympics are "in", technically, but I'd be all for Boston hosting then.

Why? With all the fancy hacking and coding the kids can do these days, we can probably muster a way to make Big Papi a world-class (virtual) rhythmic gymnast. And that's a (digitally-enhanced) spectacle I'd pay (real money) to (fake) see.

Next week, I'll be venturing into new territory for me. New, somewhat troubling and highly judicial: I've been summoned for jury duty.

It's my first time, which seems to be unusual -- just about everyone I mention it to has been called for jury duty themselves. Which means they have stories. And lots of advice:

"Better take a tablet, so you can watch movies or something."

Evidently, watching the wheels of justice turn isn't as mesmerizing as the writers for Law and Order would want you to believe.

"If you get sequestered, make sure they give you the good takeout food."

This advice was sadly not followed up with tips on how to score the good takeout, or exactly what constituted "bad takeout". I've frankly never met a spicy eggroll I didn't like. But I've never had one in a courthouse, either.

"If you want out fast, just give 'em the crazy eyes. Say you're pro-arson or something."

This seems like good advice to get out of some things fast. A blind date, for instance. A PTA meeting. Volunteer firefighter training. But assuming there's a prosecutor in the vicinity, I think I'll stay away from confessing love for any sort of felony. Or misdemeanor, for that matter.

"If some suit is still yakking about evidence by noon, I'm just going to vote to fry the defendant for whatever disturbing the peace or litterbugging he's in for, so we can all get on with our lives."

But I am good with the crazy eyes. I'm totally doing that.

The main thing I don't want is to get sucked into some months-long affair that drags on forever. A couple of hours of criminal justice system is fine -- I've watched my share of L&O marathons on cable. But I'll lose interest soon enough. If some suit is still yakking about evidence by noon, I'm just going to vote to fry the defendant for whatever disturbing the peace or litterbugging he's in for, so we can all get on with our lives.

Well, okay. So the rest of us can get on with our lives. The perp should have thought of that before he dropped his gum wrapper on the ground, or whatever.

The scary thing -- other than everything about a courthouse, and being formally summoned to one at eight in the early-ass morning -- is that there are two hee-yuge trials around town just getting under way. The Boston Marathon bombing trial started picking jurors last week, and apparently the ex-Patriot Aaron Hernandez murder trial is doing the same now. Neither of those seems like a quick "in-and-out" kind of deal, somehow. Probably, there's some evidence to go over, and witnesses to call and such. The bad takeout could get really old for somebody sitting on one of those juries.

Of course, as a (sometimes) writer, maybe I should want to land on one of those high-profile cases. Some jurors get through those, wrangle some sort of legal rights or other, and pen bestselling books about the experience. I can't say that wouldn't be attractive. Except for all that writing that's probably involved. Still.

The bigger problem is that I'm really that kind of writer. You don't want deliberations about a cold-blooded murder, or a capital terrorism case, to sound hilarious -- but I'm not sure what else I could go for. Most everything I write -- including this nonsense -- is a swirl of iffy snark, self-deprecation and dick jokes.

(Psst. It was the "spicy eggroll" thing. Sometimes they're subtle.)

Anyway, I don't think that's a risk for me. Those are both federal cases, I think, and I'm not being called to a federal courthouse... I think. I don't really know how this works. Maybe I'll get traded for a sack of "good takeout" burritos, and wind up sequestered for months. Or I'll acquit a jaywalker after ten minutes of defense. Or I won't get called at all. That might be likeliest.

(I really do have the good crazy eyes. I'm just saying.)

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http://www.wherethehellwasi.com/categories/just-life/the_furor_of_the_juror.htmlJust LifeFri, 09 Jan 2015 18:50:15 -0500Should Old Spam-quaintance Be Forgot?(Happy new Secondhand SCIENCE! This time, we're talking about prions. It sounds like some kind of vegan unicorn-farting car, but no -- it's science! Have a gander.

Also! If you're around Boston on Thursday night, come see our sketch group Always on Deck at Sketchhaus at ImprovBoston. It's mostly new, and probably fabulous. No, seriously.)

The start of a new year seems like a good time to reflect.

Not in a mirror. Good lord, after the holiday feasts and the powersleeping and the sitting on my ass for two solid yet squishy weeks. No.

Instead, I'll reflect on my tiny (and indirect) role in the sad and spammy state of the modern internet.

If you spend a lot of time on the internet -- particularly on this site, where I've bitched about this for years -- then you've also run into the odd and annoying species of network flotsam called "comment spam". For the most part, these are gibberish messages, not even meant for the eyes of actual readers (or link-clickers). Rather, as I understand it, it "works" like this:

Filthy spam robot makes programmed access to a blog or other site that accepts comments. Filthy spam robot runs program to submit comment with keywords and links to dubious bullshit pages hawking knockoff handbags, fake watches and deep-discount Tic-Tacs repackaged as peener pills. Google then indexes those blog pages for search, notices the millions of links associated with the keywords, and shoots those links to the top of internet searches for... I don't know, "Cooch purses", "Rolexuses" and "Viiiagra", I guess.

I put "works" in quotes above because I'm told that a few years ago, Google figured all of this out. They didn't appreciate being made search engine pawns by a bunch of pseudo-Cialis sickos, so they rejiggered their algorithms to put the kibosh of this nonsense. Spam all the comments you like; Big Googs knows what that looks like now, and is through rewarding your shenanigans.

"No one is clicking on the links, or seeing them, or telling Google how great faux Russian 'Bearburry' coats are."

But, you might protest, surely the spammers have changed tack? They only ping big popular sites, trying to actually get eyeballs and clicky mouse-fingers onto their greasy links?

That's where my little part comes in.

Up in the aside above, I mentioned my other site Secondhand SCIENCE. It's a niche site. I don't advertise it much (except on here, which is also pretty niche). And no one else does, either. So next to no one visits.

That's okay. I'm writing there -- and pretty much everywhere else -- largely for my own amusement. I started the site last February, and there are something like eight comments on it right now. Half of them are mine, responding to a friend I used to work with who sometimes reads. The other half are his. It's quite possible we're the only two who've seen the site in the last ten months.

However.

In the fall, I was writing my 34th Secondhand SCIENCE post, and happened to notice that the spam comment filter on the site had been working a bit harder of late. After seeing none of that nonsense for the first few weeks, the trickle of tripe had started. And at that point, it was up to a steady stream. In fact, the comment blocker boasted it had shitcanned more than 14,000 spurious spamments to that point.

That got me thinking. I post once a week, so I extrapolated out and determined my 50th post would be the first of this new year, 2015.

(Tomorrow, if you're interested. Tune in any time, folks.)

I wondered whether the spam -- this particular sort of now-ineffective, easily-rerouted, pointless, brainless spam -- would really keep coming. None of it is getting through. No one is clicking on the links, or seeing them, or telling Google how great faux Russian "Bearburry" coats are. I know they're automated, and they're hitting six million sites at once. But they're illogical, on every front, and hopelessly outdated.

Surely it couldn't keep pace. The stream must be at maximum firehose level already. I decided to pay closer attention, and see whether the number of comments blocked hit 50,000 before or after my 50th post.

And the total number of spam comments that have been left (and blocked) there, as of this evening?:

134,428. And counting.

That's the internet, kids. Happy new year.

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http://www.wherethehellwasi.com/categories/bits-about-blogging/should_old_spam-quaintance_be_forgot.htmlBits About BloggingSat, 03 Jan 2015 23:07:24 -0500The Gift Grift That Keeps On Giving(What's going on this week in the land of Secondhand SCIENCE, you ask? Good question!

This time around, we're digging into the Mpemba effect, where the cold side stays cold and the hot side stays... even colder, as it turns out. It's all kinds of freaky. Check it out.)

Hey, parents!

You had a great fall and winter this year, thanks to your "elf on the shelf" putting the fear of a coal-stuffing Santa into your little brat or impette. They were on their very best behavior -- at least when you or the elf doll were in the room. And that's great!

But now Christmas is over. The kids scored all their swag, and that little elf puppet has lost all sway over the heathens now.

(Oh sure, you can tell them, "Santa keeps an eye on you all year."

But they know old Crotchety Kringle -- read: you -- will forget all the unspeakable shit they do before summer, at least. This isn't their first North Pole rodeo, there, skipper.)

So what's an overbearing Mom or Dad to do? How to point your spawn in the right direction and teach them valuable lessons about guilt and shame and modern surveillance culture, when the "money" holiday is fifty-one weeks away?

Never fear, ya nagging nanny ninnies. Christmas may be out of play again for a few months, but there are still an army of holiday watchdogs you can employ to instill paranoia and anxiety in all of your offspring. And you can have fun doing it! Check out these "elf on the shelf" out-of-season replacements:

Baby Cupid on the Stoop(id)

You don't want your kids thinking "love is in the air" on Valentine's Day; what the hell good would that do them? Plop this disapproving cherub on your front stoop in early February to make your children ask themselves:

"Am I really worthy of love?" (Hint: no. And tie your damned shoe, kid.)"Will I ever find someone who understands me?" (Yep, two of 'em: "Jack" and "Daniels".)"Where's my 'fairy tale ending'?" (Probably at the back of an Edgar Allan Poe story.)

You'll be lucky if the kids make it past this thing to get into the house. And you're welcome.

Leprechaun on the "Ottomaun"

Assuming the kids do make it inside (by March), greet them with this scowling Irish mascot on their favorite living room footrest. It'll be a constant reminder that if they're not good, they won't get any of the great things associated with St. Patrick's Day:

You tell 'em misbehavin' wee children get no beer, a mug full of vipers and all the potatoes they can eat. And they'll have to spank their own shillelaghs. That'll put the fear o' the blarney into 'em.

Ash on the Dash

What better way to make children feel deep pangs of remorse around Arbor Day than to mount an uprooted, slowly dying ash sapling on the dashboard of your car? That way, when they've finally pestered you into yet another ride to soccer practice or business school or the emergency room, you can lecture them (again) about how all the vehicle emissions they're causing are killing the environment.

And all because they just had to get some exercise or break a femur or apply to Wharton. Selfish jerks.

(Note: You might have thought this one would be a reference to Ash Wednesday, and dumping ashes all over your car to guilt your kids into something. But no, for three reasons:

1. It's your car. Those children don't give a shit how dirty it is. They've been flicking boogers in the back seat since before they could hold their goddamned heads upright.

2. The Christian holidays are generally terrible for this sort of treatment, because they're already about guilt and feeling awful in the first place. What would you even withhold from a "bad" kid on Ash Wednesday? Dirtying up his face and hearing he basically nailed some carpenter to bunch of his own wood, probably? Don't miss that special moment, Mom and Dad.

3. If you really want to hit 'em where it hurts, faith-based edition, hold out for Easter and plant the ...)

"And what are they doing in the medicine cabinet, anyway? Looking for mouthwash to huff? Licking all the pregnancy test strips?"

Praying Rabbit in the Medicine Cabinet

This'll straighten the rugrats out in all sorts of ways. And what are they doing in the medicine cabinet, anyway? Looking for mouthwash to huff? Licking all the pregnancy test strips? Swapping grandpa's pain poppers with his pecker pills?

The rabbit sees all of this. And the rabbit doesn't approve. No Cadbury eggs for naughty kids this year.

Also, he'll be a constant reminder of the "true meaning" of Easter, which apparently doesn't involve posting pics of the largest number of marshmallow Peeps you can stuff into your mouth at once.

Instead, it's about how children once nailed baby rabbit Jesus to a chocolate cross or something, or forsook him for a bowl of Trix. Which is part of a balanced breakfast, so you can kind of see the kids' side on this one, actually.

Whatever line you feed them, just make sure they know if they don't keep their noses clean, they'll be getting no Easter baskets or goodies this year.

And they'll have to keep those noses clean without the Afrin nasal spray, because that's in the medicine cabinet -- and baby Jesus bunny rabbit is watching you in there, mister.

Bottle Rocket in the Pocket

All kids love fireworks. And good kids -- if such a beast even exists, and experts have their doubts, I hear -- should get to watch the beautiful fireworks displays lighting up the night on the Fourth of July.

The bad kids, not so much. They should be under constant surveillance, and ceremonially marched blindfolded away from the festivities if found undeserving of the holiday splendor. That's the deal. (Or should be. Stupid child blindfolding laws.)

How to remind children of this arrangement? Send them out on summer mornings with a live firecracker in the pocket of their pants. And not only is it topical; if they come back one day with the bottle rocket missing or exploded or without several of their fingers, then you'll know they succumbed to temptation and lit it. No Independence Day for them this year. Them's the breaks, Stumpy.

Candy Wrapper on the Crapper

Finally, if you really want to scare your kids into submission, you'll mess with their second-favorite holiday: Halloween. And your "monitor" for this holiday couldn't be more on the money -- or easier, or cheaper. Simply buy a piece of candy, eat it, and leave the empty wrapper sitting on your bathroom toilet.

The kids who see it will get the message -- namely, screw up this fall, and all your Trick or Treat treats are getting flushed down the commode. You can Hershey kiss those sweets goodbye, short of some major-league seasonal parental ass-kissing, bub. We're talking real von Trapp-level horseshit here. Yeah.

And leading up to the night, that strategically placed wrapper is all you need to remind the boys and girls in the house to straighten up, fly right and Auf Wiedersehen their asses off, if they want to see any goodies in October.

Plus, you get to eat candy -- quite possibly while figuratively taking it away from a baby. Talk about a holiday! What could be better than that?

This week, the buzz is about Z-DNA. Is that how z-ebras get their stripes? Or Z-orro his skinny mustache? Z-oom on over and find out.)

Last week, I talked about a certain pumpkin log that became a costar of a short comedy film I've been working on. Or rather, three different pumpkin logs playing the same character in various scenes.

"We've got ten people in this movie, and somehow the pastry is the only one who gets stunt doubles."

(We've got ten people in this movie, and somehow the pastry is the only one who gets stunt doubles.

On the other hand, the pastry is the only one who's been in the main character's mouth -- as far as I know -- so I guess fair is fair.)

Obviously, your interest is piqued now. As far as I know.

So, good news, then. It'll be a few weeks before the film is edited and dubbed and letterboxed and blessed by a priest of Baal, or however the hell it is films get released -- but right now, this very moment, you can dig in and learn more over at our fancy new Facebook page for: The Hit.

So far, we've got a few behind the scenes shots and production stills -- including yes, one of the infamously delicious pumpkin roll. There'll be more of that coming soon -- much, much more pumpkin roll, I'm afraid -- along with news, info and eventually the big official release.

Or a postcard from Armageddon, if that Baal priest gets too frisky.

Either way, stay tuned. As for me, it's holiday travel time tomorrow, so I'm off to pack. It's candy canes and Santasaurus sweaters for me next week.

And pumpkin logs, naturally. They're not just for Hollywood close-ups any more.

This week, we're learning [if you can call it that, which you mostly can't] about nanoparticles. Like carbonite, maybe, if that's a real thing. Or Ariana Grande. It gets a little weird. Go see.)

I don't like making people uncomfortable.

(Except for the times when I do, which is mostly all of the times. But for the sake of argument, let's assume I don't.)

Problem is, sometimes there's no good way to not make someone uncomfortable. I had one of those, a few weekends ago.

You may know (or may not) that I was involved in a short comedy film shoot over the past month or so. My friend Jenn and I wrote the script, and decided we liked it enough to give filming it a shot.

"I might as well decide I'm going to invent a perpetual motion machine made of used popsicle sticks and powered by Tinkerbell farts."

Which means absolutely nothing, for me to decide such a thing. I might as well decide I'm going to invent a perpetual motion machine made of used popsicle sticks and powered by Tinkerbell farts. Luckily, Jenn knows how these things work and has a ton of past experience, practical knowledge and helpful contacts.

(For the filming. Not the fairy-fart machine. Trust me -- I asked.)

So we put a schedule together, and planned to shoot over a couple of weekends in November. We used my condo, her car, a local pub and assorted locations in Rhode Island. But before shooting, we had to put all of the pieces together, like the props. Jenn acquired a Santasaurus sweater, four dozen urine specimen bottles and two Boy Scout uniforms. I found a velour track suit, a laser pointer and a banner for the (nonexistent) West Chelsea Charity Arts and Crafts Fair. Meanwhile, our designer rolled out the graphics, both printed and digital: a mafia-themed cupcake company logo. "Got chlamydia?" pamphlets. Dick Aficionado magazine.

(By the way, if that last paragraph doesn't make you want to see this movie ASAP, then I don't know what the hell we're doing here. I'm just saying.)

Clearly, all of these things made our mail carriers very uncomfortable, along with a couple of Kinkos employees making copies of whatever unholy thing we had to xerox. These people, we didn't care so much about. They see weird shit every day.

But when it was nearly time to start shooting, I was tasked with picking up the last set of props. One of the characters we'd written is a big fan -- no, a big fan, really -- of pastries. Doughnuts and cupcakes and bear claws, oh my. You name it (and preferably, glaze it) and he's into it. That's his "thing".

Naturally, the actor who signed on to play the part -- hilariously, by the way -- has a gluten sensitivity. So we couldn't actually feed him all those rich sugary pastries, or we'd kill him. Which isn't really supposed to come up until near the end of the film, and anyway, that's what we bought the (disabled) handgun for.

So the day before shooting, I found myself walking into a local gluten-free bakery, looking for treats that would both look good on camera and keep our actor off a hospital gurney. A very nice lady at the counter offered to help, and I walked out of there a few minutes later with a flourless mini cake, a half-dozen cupcakes and a large heavy gluten-free pumpkin roll.

(The last of which would ultimately become a featured co-star of the film. Based on all the work he put in, we probably should have paid the pumpkin log a union rate.

But instead, we ate him. Or smeared him on some sheets. I'll get back to that.)

The lady didn't ask a lot of questions; I went on my merry way and we filmed some great scenes that first weekend. But when the next weekend of shooting rolled around, we needed more goodies -- did I mention this character really loves pastries? -- so I went back to the same shop for another run.

The same lady was there, and looked a little puzzled when she recognized me. I'd taken a lot of merchandise home just last week. That could have been for a party, sure -- but why would I be back so soon? And why was I now ordering another big batch of cupcakes, another pumpkin log -- and another half-log, besides?

I could almost hear her wheels turning. "Is this freak coming in every week? Is this my life now? Where did I go wrong?" But she smiled sweetly when I approached the counter, and rang me up as before. As breezily as I imagine she could muster, she asked:

"Oh, you're back -- got another party or something?"

And there was no way at that point to not make her uncomfortable. I could have lied and said "yes" -- but then I'd have probably offered more details to make the lie seem believable, and told her I was having a bunch of gluten-hating eight-year-olds come over to my van or something. I don't lie well on the spot. I need prep time to cross the t's in a mistruth. And I wasn't ready.

I could have just said, "no" and left it at that. But then she'd wonder what the hell I was doing with all her baked goods. With no other information to go on, she might think I was hoarding them for some glutenless apocalypse, or building some kind of flourless Frankenstein's monster.

That didn't seem right. I thought maybe telling her the truth would put her mind at ease. Then I thought about the truth, in the context of the scenes we were shooting, and how that would sound:

"Nah, the first batch was for a guy to snuggle with in my guest bed. And these are mostly to smear on his face while he's sitting in my friend's Yaris in an empty parking lot somewhere."

All of which is true. But none of which would make the lady more comfortable. Or, perhaps, keep her from calling the police on me.

So I just smiled, and shrugged, and took my cupcakes and pumpkin logs away. I could see her eyebrows knitted up with curiosity, and I know she was a little uncomfortable. But hey, I did the best I could. Cupcake lady, what you don't know probably won't hurt you.

But for the record, everything was delicious. I can't wait to see how tasty it looks on film.

(ETA: When I wrote the post below, I hadn't realized I'd used the "Phone-y Baloney" title before for a post. But I did -- just over two years ago, when I wrote about the ordeal of buying the phone that below I describe dying.

Mediocre minds think the exact same thing every two years, evidently. Freakay.)

My phone died last week.

Actually, it didn't die so much as it developed some sort of selective amnesia. Before last week, it remembered that it had a SIM card nestled snugly in its internal socket. And then it forgot. The SIM card didn't go anywhere. The phone didn't get dropped on its head or anything. It just lost track, and wandered around the house asking, "Where's my SIM card? Anyone seen my SIM card?"

It was kind of sad, actually. Like old aunt Rita searching high and low for her eyeglasses, when they're pushed up on her forehead the whole time. Unfortunately, you can't reboot Rita and make sure her firmware is up to date. (Hint: It isn't.) But you can try that with a phone, and if it doesn't work -- as it didn't for me -- then it's time to buy a new phone.

Of course, my phone had just gone off contract. Which is nice, I guess, that I didn't have anything left to pay on it. But I only had a month or two to get used to not paying for it, before it went kaput. I'm a little surprised it didn't self-destruct the day immediately after it was paid. I guess they figure that would be too obvious.

Anyway, the phone went south. I decided I'd be smart about finding a replacement. I'd study reviews and specs and special features. I'd wait for a sale, or take advantage of some holiday-season deal. My research would be thorough, rational and comprehensive.

Then I spent a day without a working phone.

And then I bolted to a store and bought the first phone I saw that looked pretty and recognized a SIM card. Because what's the point of living if you can't tweet from the bathroom or play Two Dots while you're stuck in traffic?

So I've got a new phone, and I've spent several days setting it up. Downloading all the apps I had. Copying over my old files. Setting "Bang the Drum All Day" as the ringtone when my boss calls. The usual.

The worst part of setting up a new phone is remembering all the passwords for apps and sites that were set on the old phone, and which you therefore haven't thought about for two years (and a month). I'm not especially bright, so I forgot all of these passwords. Which was mostly just aggravating, but I almost locked myself in an endless loop of incompetence. To wit:

My new phone runs Android, and I forgot my Google password. So I reset it.

When you reset your Google password, Big G sends a text to your phone to confirm.

My phone wasn't set up yet and the old phone was off wandering the streets in its pajamas or something, so I couldn't get a text.

Google said fine, I'll send an email to your backup account, and we'll go from there.

Only my backup email account is with Yahoo, which is an enormous pain in the ass, so I have all that mail forward to my Gmail account...

...which requires a Google login, and I forgot my Google password.

Like I said, I'm not especially bright. But at least I know my SIM card is plugged in.

Eventually, I got it all sorted out and now I've got a new phone. So it's all good.

For another two years and four weeks, which this phone will inevitably break in half, explode or break into its component molecules and float off into the ether. And then we'll go through the process all over again. Death, taxes and broken paid-off phones. Them's the breaks.

I'm not a shopper. There's nothing about the shopping experience I enjoy -- especially on "big" shopping days. And Black Friday -- the day after Thanksgiving, and the first day stores can really lay on the Christmastime schmaltz without the entire nation collectively rolling their eyes -- is the biggest shopping day of all, at least in the U.S.

The French? Please. Germans? Nein. And it's not like China's known for shopping sprees. They're too busy making all the stuff that gets shipped out for everyone else to buy.)

The point is, I'm not a shopping fan. From the yawning parking lots to the cheesy ads to the packs of strangers made wider by heavy coats, stuffed bags and three helpings of Grandma's family-secret green bean casserole.

(By the way, granny: the recipe's right there on the back of the cream of mushroom soup can. You're not fooling anyone, sister.)

So I don't shop on Black Friday -- or any other day, when I can help it. And this year, I went a step further. I decided that I wouldn't spend any money whatsoever, all day long. On principle. As a personal boycott. Also, to save up for Cyber Monday.

(Not really. But at least online shopping doesn't smell like sweaty down jackets and stale Cinnabon.

At least, mine doesn't. And if yours does, you should probably think about getting a new laptop. Or a new living room.)

Normally, "unspending" on a holiday Friday would be pretty simple. Leave bed, find couch, find Simpsons marathon, repeat as needed. But yesterday was a bit different. I'll be out of the office on Monday, so I "traded" days, and volunteered to work Friday instead.

In many ways, that was nice. No one -- literally no one, so far as I saw -- was there. So there were no distractions, no meetings, no fire drills, no pop-ins, and no one yelling at me for riding my rolling chair down the long hallway shouting, "I'm on top of the world!"

Presumably, they'll see the footage from the security cams. So I am not looking forward to Tuesday.

But my primary goal was to spend no money and experience no shopping, and that was a bit of a minefield. First of all, I needed to eat. No problem; I made a sandwich at home and took it with me. I was out of soda, so all I had to drink with it was apple cider vinegar and a half bottle of ranch dressing, but I made do.

That's what "on principle" is about, after all. Eating terrible meals and sacrificing any shred of personal enjoyment.

My bigger problem was actually getting to the office. I drive, and I have a parking spot -- but it's not at the office building. It's down the street. In a mall.

Because the universe hates me. We knew that.

To avoid the mall -- the crammed-full parking, the holiday jingles, the hordes of wild-eyed bargain hunters -- I decided to forgo my usual space altogether. Money spent or not, trying to park and walk through that nightmare (twice!) would ruin the entire point of a Black Friday boycott. And it would make me hungry for Cinnabon. No good can come from that.

So I cruised past the mall, drove the few blocks to my office and found a spot -- so many open spots! I bypassed the mall completely, spent zero money, ate my awful homemade sandwich and washed it down with Hidden Valley, and I worked. Mission accomplished.

Or so I thought. Until I went back down a few hours later, and found the ticket on my car. Because even though Black Friday is a "holiday", it's not a holiday-holiday, and the cops are still roaming about, jolly as punch to ding you with a fifty dollar ticket for parking out of the way where no one is, because everybody's at the freaking stupid mall, jackass.

Ho ho ho.

So anyway, I didn't shop. I went to work. And I still spent money, which will let some meter maid have a merrier Christmas buying coal or dirt or little childrens' souls or whatever they exchange for the holidays. Black Friday, indeed.

In case anyone's noticed my absence here for the past couple of weeks -- and don't worry; no one has -- I've got what I consider a fairly reasonable excuse: I'm shooting a movie.

Well. That's not exactly true. Other people are actually shooting the movie. Like, competent people who definitely aren't me and who know how to work a boom mic and light a scene and which end of the camera to look through. All of which is terribly useful when you want to shoot a movie. Or so I understand.

I did co-write the script, though, with my good friend Jenn. She makes movies -- or watches other people make movies, though I suspect it's often both -- on a fairly regular basis, but this is my first real "shoot", from a vantage point somewhere behind the camera. Or in the next room. Or ordering lunch. As one does, when the competent adults are making movies nearby.

"It's gonna be a helluva weekend."

(In fairness, I did participate in another of Jenn's projects a couple of years ago, Viral Video. But I only acted in that. I can't take any credit for anything that happened beforehand leading to the production of that gem.

Nor can I be held legally responsible. I checked. So that's nice.)

I'm co-doing other things for this movie, besides writing -- but since I've never been involved in a shoot, I don't know what they are, exactly. One might be producing. Or directing. One is definitely lunch-ordering. And I'm holding out for co-head-gaffering. I'll have to ask Jenn.

Unless that would be co-depending. I'm pretty sure we have people for that already.

Anyway. I think this is going to be a really fantastic, funny film. But we're still shooting it, so there's a lot left to do. And several lunches to order. One guy is gluten-free, and we've got some vegetarians. So it's hard work, people.

In the meantime, the production has had it's fair share of surprises. Like the pumpkin log, which was never in the script, but has somehow become a crucial star of the show. Soon enough, it'll have its own trailer and probably a makeup artist for when its icing gets smushed.